


Robots and incongruity

by quenive



Series: This and that [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blowjobs, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, human!hal, im not even sure what im writing anymore this is a huge clusterfuck, sweet as shit dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 21:01:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8300866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quenive/pseuds/quenive
Summary: "It's my tendency to hamper every good thing in my vicinity. I'm frivolous as shit, bro, watch your dong in this general area.""Gobbledygook." Dirk words out, not managing to hide his smile. He shifts from his back to his side in your direction, curling in on himself and lowering his gaze."Gesundheit."





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have this strong headcanon that human Hal is a redhead, just a heads up.

"Did you take the screwdriver?" He interrupts you briefly, sliding next to your chair at the desk. You pry your eyes away from your computer screen and squint at him. God damn these coded shenanigans, numbers are dancing in your field of vision, clodding Dirk's face while you look at each other. He's patient, of course, dude knows your eyes need to adjust to a human silhouette after a few hours of non-stop straining.

"What would I need your shitty screwdriver for?" You did take it. You kind of desecrated the thing by using it to pick mud out of your shoes, and you disregarded it somewhere in hopes Dirk here had a spare. Who doesn't have spare tools?

"Shitty screwdriver things." Dirk shrugs, runs a hand through his hair. It goes smoothly through his bangs where he was sweating slightly and you take a moment to just absorb the scenery before the hand gets casually stuck at the back, where there's an archive of dried hair gel and crappy hair spray. A deadly mix leaving Dirk's hair another holy thing in this house that has been so rudely desecrated by mud-like bullshit.

"I didn't see it." You lie. A small, innocent, snow-white lie. So obvious that you can almost see it sitting on Dirk's shoulder, grinning at you and showing off its razor sharp teeth while it pokes Dirk in the neck and whispers in his ear how big of a shitstain you are. Dirk somewhat squints at you, his eyebrows furrowing. But he knows better than to make you admit shit you don't want to admit. It'd take the energy out of the both of you, a pointless quarrel which could ruin everything you had building up. All because of a shitty screwdriver.

His face finally relaxes, and he sighs. Anyone else would miss the mild frustration in that sigh, but you're basically trained to notice that shit straight up. But he doesn't say anything else after that so you shrug and turn back to your monitor.

You type away while the keyboard makes the distinct keyboard noises you kind of like, and Dirk isn't fucking budging. Someone staring at you while you work usually makes you somewhat uncomfortable, but Dirk wasn't anyone. Though, you're still not disregarding the fact that he's full on staring, and you can see his eyes scanning the screen in the corner of your own eye, your sharp peripheral vision not betraying you.

After a minute, fifty five seconds pass, your fingers stop typing and you frown at the screen, not at Dirk.

"What?" You ask, a hint of annoyance in your tone. Dirk points to the monitor, finger nearly touching the screen.

"That. You sure there isn't a better way to go about it?"

You twitch from the inside, his comment getting to you faster than it should have. He is in no position to questio your sick programming skills and you swat his hand away before you answer. To defend yourself even more, you immaturely cover up the part of the screen he pointed at with your hand, although it does nothing to hide the rest of the damned thing.

"Hey hey hey. You build, I code. Please water the grass on your own fucking field."

"Just saying." Oh great. You pick up some amusement in his voice, and it does nothing but piss you off further. "You can easily simplify it instead of leaving that godawful clusterfuck."

"It'll work either ways." You reason with him, calming yourself down but still not uncovering the screen.

"Think practical. It's neater that way."

"Are you implying that I should just erase my fingerprint completely?" You finally turn to look at him, raising your brows in mock offence. "It seems that you are, Dirk. I thought you were better than shoving an abundance of your bullshit down my throat, but as it turns out, you're nothing less than disgustingly adept in the matter at hand."

"Not erase." Dirk just ignores the second part of your accusation, and folds his arms over his chest. "Mildly modify. If you can't take a good dose of creative criticism, you shouldn't have agreed to do this with me in the first place."

You bite your lip, but you quickly let go of it once you realize it's giving out exactly what you're thinking. Admittedly, you're all kinds of interested in this project he planned out. Dude was all kinds of skilled with hardware, but software was his weak side. But that's where you come in. You have never programmed a legitimate robot, let alone something that's supposed to challenge you to idiotic rap battles and other stupid shit. But if there's one thing you believe in, it's your own mad skills. Plus it gets you closer to him, it allows you to be in his presence even if you're either silent or fighting most of the time with little shit in between. You two are a couple of competent adults, and there's no one else he'd trust to do the job right.

But still. He has his flaws. The one at the moment being his tendency to point out your flaws, which aren't flaws in the first place. You'd call your coding method a quirk, because it's witty, excellent, perfect, got the job done. Who cares that it had a few extra rows?

You finally remove your hand from the screen and silently exhale a puff of breath, looking away from him and focusing on the monitor.

"Your screwdriver is in your shoe drawer." You finally say, and he unfolds his arms and stretches them in front of him. A few audible pops are bound to get noticed, but you don't react.

"Thanks." If he's wondering what it's doing there, he doesn't ask. He just walks away from your desk, most likely towards the hall to get his precious tool.

He's a tool himself, but a tool you wouldn't quite clean your boots with.

You stare at your screen for a few more moments, gnawing at your lip and studying the shit he pointed out. Your fingers dance over the keyboard, just grazing it slightly, not typing anything. After a while of intense contemplation, you make a face, and completely summarize two rows in a few simple keys. It's a small price to pay, remaining at amity with him is prioritized over your shitty complexes.

Maybe he noticed something else, though? Something that your sharp eye couldn't really edge out because it's so far up your own literal ass? So you keep squinting at the screen, deciphering the ever loving fuck out of your seemingly perfect row of numbers. Perfect, on the first glance. Less perfect on the second, and good Lord what the glistering sizzleshit on the third. There are so many casual bugs in this bitch that an error hive is not a distant concept at this point. Autopilot does shit to this motherfucker, your brain just collapsed in on itself screeching in pain as it falls further down into a blockage void. It's trying to crawl its way out of the pit, but the endeavor means shit.

You, however, remain perfectly stoic on the outside. Dirk is back working on the godforsaken robot chilling on other desk, on the other side of his room. It seems as though he found the screwdriver which doubles extra as a pretty decent shoe cleaner. You sure did a nasty number on that poor piece of cold utility. Honestly, it must be covered in crusty dirt and whatever else the fuck you stepped in. You hope it ain't shit, but you also hope it kind of is. Being the second best ninja in this room (he wishes), you turn your head to the side to sneak a glance at him with your abnormally evolved peripheral vision.

He's hunched over his soon-to-be rapbot, tinkering with what you can bet on are the fucking legs. It has to bounce, he says. Why, you ask. Because bouncing makes every freestyle rap battle 20% cooler, he replies, annoyed. You usually scoff at him then, or reply with an overly effete sardonic remark which isn't worth those twenty five cents from the bottom of your old aunt's bag at some shitty yard sard. That mug costs five bucks? Well tough fucking luck sonny, here's a damn rusty quarter.

Rusty like the very core of your cold, dead heart.

Melodramatic much?

You suddenly push yourself away from the desk, and notice him flinch at the sound of chair wheels rolling over the carpetless floor tile. "Flinch", as in mild surprise due to the unexpected action. Man, you're on fire today with the whole provocation thing. The date should be permanently marked as "Annoy The Fuck Out Of Dirk Day" because so far you have spilled coffee on his minor puppet (if it was Cal you'd probably be six feet under), used his razor to shave your balls (he trims, you like it smooth), used his screwdriver to clean your boots (it was raining outside, the mud was murder), and made him flinch (kind of). Minor inconvenience being him correcting your code (not really), but you'll live through it.

It irritated your eye, so you saved your progress after you stood up, just in case. Never can be too careful, what if there's a freaky blackout and all of your hard work goes to complete shit? Yeah, you're smart. One step ahead of the system, go fucking figure.

As you walk over to the coathanger, his eyes are once again on you. Though shaded, you can pretty much guess that he's squinting up a storm in your direction. Unless confronted, you won't react.

"Where to?" He asks, confronting the shit out of you. You're so confronted you almost feel violated, tainted, sodomized. In fact, your stretched view of confrontation is ricocheting straight off your fucking head, right back at him. Must sting like a bitch, him being the one engaging in conversation for the second time in a row. He can't like those apples, there are no fucking apples for miles.

"Out." Pulling your coat on, you notice that he tried not to sound curious or worried. You guess he's a strong mix of both, though someone else might blink and miss that change in tone. So to keep his nerves steady and to assure him you're not leaving forever or some shit, you soften your expression as much as you can when facing him again, buttoning up your coat. "You need anything? I'm so in the mood for playing errand boy for you right now." Yeah, karma can suck a dick. Can't punish you when you're so damn golden.

Relief painted his face in its finest colors. It makes your insides churn, the way he tries to sweep his emotions under the proverbial carpet around you when he's fully aware how well you can read his expressions at times. You sweep that thought under the same carpet so it can make his insecurities company since you're all about being generous today.

"Yeah." He replies shortly, turning back to his work. "I'm out of dish soap."

"Dish soap?" You arch a brow. That's too normal of a request coming from him.

And as if he could see your eyebrow descending up to the mesosphere, he shrugs without turning back to face you.

"I have to lube up the gears of this household and someone's gotta double for a bottle."

You snort, amused.

"Bad analogy, bro." Right, now he's comparing you to a fucking lube bottle. That's a new one. "Might want to work on making your statements less flimsy, as amusing as they may be. Your cheek is still on the line here."

He waves you off. You coil a red scarf around your neck.

"Dish soap. Don't forget."

"Please." You scoff, stuffing your hands into the coat pockets to feel up the keys. Yeah, they're sure there, right where you left them. "You really think I'd have it in me to forget even the most fatuous of necessities?"

He's trying hard not to groan in frustration, you can feel it in the air with your imaginary whiskers. But he still leans back into his chair and spins it around to face you. He goes a little too far, so he uses his feet to kind of scurry back. You don't even notice you're grinning until he's shooting you with an expression which strives to end your smile.

"It's not fatuous, you jackass. Normal people actually need that crap for their daily bullshit."

Yeah, you're quitting while you're ahead. Something's dipping in his grill and he obviously isn't liking it. Usually courageously unimpeded, you choke up your pride and step the fuck off before this shit becomes a legitimate bubble water argument.

"Right. Normal. I won't forget."

* * * *

You forgot the fucking dish soap.

The thought briefly flashes in your mind when you shut the door behind you. You're soaked, drenched like a shelterless rat and resembling one as well. Wet, and not the sexy kind of wet. The kind of wet that's just itching to catch a cold for you so you don't have to move a muscle. There is literal rainwater pouring from your hair and down your face as we speak. Shimmying out of the coat was never this difficult.

It might look cool, might look like something from a Matrix movie, but it sure as hell wasn't built for heavy rain. You honestly thought you'd be done with your little excursion before it started pouring felines and canines, but you miscalculated. You are nothing more than a disgrace to your Matrix coat, an itch in the buttcrack of everything you stand for.

The main reason for your walk was a smoke break. You don't smoke around him anymore because he's trying to stop, and you're that considerate of a pal. It's a bit of a bitch, trying to wiggle in time to please your idiot body's needs just to make it work around him. You've even cut back on those branded cigs you used to inhale three at once. It's pure tobacco all the way down, rolled and ready. You get it from a juggalo dude that lives down the street. Yeah, you recognize quality once you get a huge whiff of it. That dude has nothing but quality, topic closed to discussion.

Even with the hairy eyeball a few people gave you, you walked the sidewalk freely. Deep in thought, staring blankly at whatever was in front of you while coming up with stupidguy number patterns which reflected on your mood. The cigarettes you smoke burn slowly, but the mood you were in was such a huge clusterfuck that you couldn't decipher it in time. Before you knew it, the first one glimmered out in a heartbeat.

Somewhere in the middle of the second cancer tube, it started raining. Not the little sissy drops which escalate in time, no. As if someone poured water down from a fucking hose. It extinguished your smoke and left a fucking hole in your chest. The cigarette is gone and oops, you're gonna get sick as all hell.

You don't run, you casually speedwalk while cussing so loudly it made a few old ladies turn their heads. You casually speedwalked all the way to Dirk's place, dashed up the stairs to the top floor because the elevator was out of order again, and got in at Sonic speed.

The coat is off you, flopped somewhere on the floor because you don't care. You're cold and wet and in need of a shower and you just don't give a rat's ass about a fucking coat. Dirk is nowhere in sight. Good, you guess? You're kind of looking like shit here, wouldn't want to look bad in front of the dude you're fucking. Plus, you're not in the mood to hear his comments about dish soap. As everything, it'll be the main focus of his condescending demeanor towards you for the following day or so.

You get a towel from the bathroom to manually dry your hair a bit. There are ginger strands everywhere. The sun from the Teletubbies ain't got shit on you. The baby laughs as it has little to no knowledge about the worldwide economy corruption and all the gay shit that you're constantly surrounded by. You're a liar. You really want to be the Teletubby sun baby.

When you finish with it, you toss it in the bin. The bin is empty with no other soiled items of clothing or towels of a similar sort. Your pants are also ruined, so you shimmy out of them and toss them onto the towel so it isn't lonely. You guess you can spend one more night here, ain't too big of an issue for anyone.

At least it's what you've been saying to yourself for this past week. Only a project thing, right. As temporary as any insignificant thing.

Come to think of it, where exactly is your generous host?

You glance down at your boxers. They had a gross money pattern on them and were by far your least favorite pair. Sure, your dick is worthy enough to be clothed by a few hundred dollar bills, but it also makes you look like a huge fucking nerd. You'd just scoff at that. Huge fucking nerd? As if.

The faint sound coming from his room was his heat signature, a thing indicating his exact location. Well, you would have guessed it yourself. If he isn't anywhere else in the house, his room would basically be the first place you'd check. The faint sound you heard, however, was something that also boosted you in your little search.

Your grey socks are slippery on the carpetless floor of the hall, but you don't allow yourself to be an imbecile again and fall. But it also has an upside to it, considering it basically makes zero sound which allows you to be as sneaky as you want.

What an amazing turn of events, you figure as you ninjadude yourself through the hall. Guy had a large apartment unlike you with your little cramped doghouse of a place. At least yours was neat and perfectly organized. His was a mess. An organized mess, but a mess nonetheless. You almost step on a porn puppet. That's really not the way you want to go. Death by plush ass, who knew that was a legitimate thing?

When you creak his door ajar to peek into his room, your lips automatically stretch into a smile.

He's fully naked and curled up in his bed with his phone held close. In one hand, that is. The other one was shamelessly keeping his dick company. Earbuds in his ears, it was really no wonder he didn't hear you come in.

But alright. This isn't the first time one of you walked in on the other beating it to whatever. He once caught you in his shirt, sniffing and jerking like a fucking creep. You also saw him choking the chicken in the shower once, and he interrupted you just as you were about to start. A functioning household, no doubt. Neither of you stepped in, though. You'd let each other be.

You're really not in the mood for letting him be. Which is kind of good, considering he's actually looking at you now.

Snapping out of whatever got over you, you realize that your smile faded. You clear your throat and walk all the way in with little regard for common decency. He stopped whatever porno he was watching, now pulling the buds out of his ears and vaguely gesturing at you with them.

"Can I help you?" He asks, voice a bit strained. Because of this he also clears his throat, but arches a brow at you.

"Yeah." You stand next to his bed, left hand on your hip and the right one flicking in a demanding gesture. "Scoot."

Dirk opens his mouth to object, but shuts it when he gets it through his skull that you won't just let him the fuck be. Both of you know when to give up and now just happens to be the perfect time for him to do just that. He huffs and moves aside so there's enough place for you on his bed. Before sitting down you glance at his crotch. Still holding himself like it'll somehow crawl away. The thought is amusing, you flop down. The mattress depresses under your weight.

Dirk looks at you expectantly. You just bend your legs, knees up to your chest, hugging around them like a poor hobo. You're not even looking at him anymore. Eyes long focused on the foot of his bed, you ponder reality and what lies beyond. Shit, shit lies beyond. It's an endless stretch of bullshit, a mile long snake which just happened to crawl out of someone's asshole. That's it, no strain or effort what so ever. When it sheds its shitskin all it did was leave a mark on your person. Get your little baggy out because the government isn't too pleased about you leaving your pet shitsnake's shitskin lying around. And even then it wouldn't be pleased since it's really inconvenient to walk around with a pet whose main structural component is fecal matter.

You strained so fucking far from your original thought that you didn't notice Dirk continuing to jerk it again. It isn't surprising, neither of you have any shame left. Maybe he figured that, since you obviously zoned out, his little private rendezvous would remain unnoticed. Tough fucking luck, here you are zoning the fuck back in. You turn to him, stretching your right leg down onto the bed.

"A matter that could stretch infinitely, and with that as its main purpose, will never be able to "bite its own tail". Nor to continue gobbling it up if we look at it from a serpent-like perspective. To defy this seemingly paradoxical concept, I'm claiming this bitch as the bullshit that's currently gorging me up while reciting the whole epic of Gilgamesh by heart." You spit out in one breath. Well fuck. There goes your personal fucking record. Zero days since last catastrophic heart-to-heart attempt. You're dropping that hot tater before it burns your skin further.

He stops in his motions, looking up at you from his lying position on the bed. There's literal sweat on his forehead, hair almost as damp as yours. He's trying. Really is, but you can decipher the obvious frustration on his face. Why doesn't he quit? Stupid question. Dirk Strider isn't a quitter and there is no fucking way he'd allow himself to give up in front of you.

"Is this the start of another ironic fable?" He asks, you forcefully puff out some air from your nose instead of laughing or smiling. The little horse that went moo didn't sit well with him.

"It's my tendency to hamper every good thing in my vicinity. I'm frivolous as shit, bro, watch your dong in this general area."

"Gobbledygook." Dirk words out, not managing to hide his smile. He shifts from his back to his side in your direction, curling in on himself and lowering his gaze.

"Gesundheit." Is your reply. You can imagine the face he'd make at you if the situation was different.

There's an awkward silence in the room. Your eyes flicker from his crotch to his hair, the motion too familiar for comfort. Dick noises were the only sound in the room, accompanied with his occasional heavy breath. You're gnawing at your lip and refusing to give it peace. There's blood eventually, your expeditions have come to a halt. You sigh and stretch your other leg out. Really not feeling the position anymore, you're kind of stumped.

Instead you switch to your side as well, facing him. Admittedly, your money boxers were starting to tent like your crotch was a campground of the highest quality. He gets a little hesitant with his own issue, but regains the flow once he notices you reaching for your schlong too. You palm it through the fabric. The friction is comfortable and welcoming, makes your hips sway with your hand. As you rub, there's a nice little ping in your gut. You swallow, motions circular because you are your own best tease. Kind of. Your hand is cold against your heated part. A bit on the uncomfortable side, but your brain refuses to acknowledge it. It feels too good to stop and you're soon to breathe in sync with your comrade. Dirk's probably looking right at it so you cup it for good measure before dipping your hand under the elastic of the boxers.

You flinch it away. Your hands are so fucking cold. How is this a fact you were able to disregard so easily? And just after it was mentioned. You are obviously unfit for the task of reasonable thinking at the moment.

You are also very quick to turn onto your stomach and inch your head so close to his that you startle the poor guy. He tilts his own up, and you're both basically on the same level now. He has beautiful eyes, the kind which you'll literally never get tired of. Unlike your mundane ones, his radiate a special kind of warm. It hits so close to home on so many levels. You shift closer and smile at him. Dirk squints when you rearrange your hands to be intertwining fingers under your chin.

"I can finish a whole Capri Sun in one suck." Your eyelashes flutter in a deliberately seductive manner.

He snorts, lets go of his dick, allows his arms to flop down at his sides.

"Please."

You take that as a good enough invitation and scoot down by pushing yourself off the mattress with your arms and shifting your position. You're face-to-cock with his genitals as you settle between his legs. Comical if you word it like that, the situation didn't need more of your frivolity. But you add some anyways.

"You are aware that I wasn't joking, no?" You take a hold of his thighs. Not too hard, not too light. Just right.

Dirk props himself up on his elbows and looks down at you. His face is notably flushed. It's not every day that you get to blow him. Not like you have trouble recalling the last time, but it's certainly a rare occasion. Under all that flippant demeanor there are darker elements to this whole charade. Looks like neither of you want to get into all that at the moment. It's nice to take a break sometimes.

"The Capri Sun thing?" He inquires. If he wasn't holding himself up he'd probably wave you off. "You're just full of crap today, aren't you?"

"It seems you are accusing me of slander, Dirk." You tilt your head, feigning hurt. "I'm flabbergasted. What could you possibly say in your defense?"

"My own monopoly of legitimate coercion will have your ass if you don't stop being one."

With your left hand, you ghost up the underside of his cock slowly. It's already pressing itself against his lower stomach. Just where you want it, too. Dirk bites his lower lip. You have him right where you want him.

"So you're a small country now?" You ask, getting all the way up to the tip. After that you take a hold of it. Your thumb flicks the slit, and Dirk twitches.

"Island in the Bermuda triangle." His words are careful and slow, yet unimpeded.

"Isn't the whole enigmatic thing my domain? You're the slavish one."

He has the nerve to bump you with his leg. You make a face in mock pain. In return, you pump him once, twice, pulling the foreskin over the crown with each painful tug. He takes a deep breath before speaking again.

"Do you actually hone your ability to enervate or does it come naturally?"

"Both?" You shrug, hurrying your motions with an apparent lack of assiduity. "Questioning a gimmick is the last thing you should be doing. "

"Fuck." He cusses out. You guess it's either your quick wrist flick or him just being generally frustrated with you. "Getting on with it should be your first." Both? Both.

You're quick to oblige, bringing his dick to your lips. You pucker up, though still refuse to smooch his tip. Dirk suddenly seems to remember why he restrains from letting you go down on him, judging by his facial expression. You infect him with bullshit, leave him frustrated. And not of the cool, sexual kind. His elbows purposely give out and he flops down on his back, both hands going through his untamed mane as he breathes out in previously brought up frustration.

"I'm being punished for my sins, aren't I?" He groans, tilting his head back up. His neck probably hurts because of the position, but he'll manage.

You kiss the crown of your prince and mentally slap yourself for sounding like such a nerd.

"You wish." You coo the words out along with a well calculated scoff. Yeah, you make it work. "Do you do the crime because you're secretly ardent about the time?"

"Secretly?" His head falls back down again. "I'm basically begging you here."

He kind of is. So since you're all generous and stuff, you finally part your lips and stick out your tongue. It's luke-warm against his equally warm flesh. Dirk sighs with audible relief anyways. You love to take your time. It's always a hurry for some reason, always a rush. Pausing to take into consideration his taste, smell, and feel on your tongue, you proceed to lap up the bitter drop of pre that peaked out. Your tongue twirls around the tip. His chest is going up and down heavily. It seems as though he's enjoying it thoroughly. That's not to say you aren't.

You take him in only by the tip as your hand continues where it left off at jerking him. Your hands are less cold than they were but even if he had a problem with it he's certainly keeping quiet. Well, about the problem on its own. Every once in a while he'd make a sound of pleasure, an audible affirmation of a job well fucking done. It pushed you to do better, to give your best to him.

As you slide further down, you stop touching his dick and cup his balls. He breathes out when you massage them and rewards you with the most pornographic muffled whine you ever heard. Your gag reflex, or lack of, never fails to amaze you. He's all the way in without further difficulties. You take a moment to absorb the situation when you look up at him. Then his hands slide down to caress your damp ginger locks, blunt fingernails massaging your scalp. He isn't forcing nor demanding, but lovingly touching your hair as if it's the first time his fingers came into contact with it.

You slowly bob your head up and down, tongue slipping left and right over his shaft to deepen the sensation. His grip on you doesn't tighten, but the way he's holding you is doing so many unwanted things. You breathe out through your nose. It comes out a bit shaky, flimsy. Every time his dick presses at the back of your throat the unwanted feeling comes back. Your vanilla is showing, but you don't care. It's everything you want from him and he isn't even doing anything memorable. It... hurts? For some reason. Everything inside you is screaming at the outside of you to continue, or to at least touch yourself while you're at it. No fucking dice, the outside you is being an insufferable prick at the moment.

You swallow around him and he squirms, but you're going to hate yourself for what you're about to do now.

His dick slips out with a wet pop when you lift your head up. He creaks his neck too so he can get a better look at you. Eyes droopy, lips slightly parted for uncoordinated exhales. Mouthbreathing was never this damn appealing. You're propping yourself up on your elbows, legs dangling off the edge of his bed for a while now.

"Not feeling it." You lie. His eyes widen by a fraction, though that's only because he sincerely tries not to let his surprise show.

To further boost your statement you sit up. On your knees, specifically. They're at the very edge of the bed and your feet are still dangling. You stare into his eyes trying to look as sincere as possible. The ever present tent in your boxers says otherwise, though. By the way he's looking at it you could guess that he knows what a huge fucking liar you are.

He sighs and inches away, willing his naked body into a sitting position of his own. A one that's a bit more casual than yours. Legs bent at the knees, but still not crossing them. You glance at his dick. Your spit is still evaporating from it and it's back to pressing itself against his stomach again.

When you look up, he's furrowing his brows at you. You shrug, feigning indifference while you inwardly collapse.

"Are you sure?" He asks skeptically. His eyes wander down to your crotch, then up at you again. He arches a brow. "Lil' Hal might disagree. I know I do."

"Piss off." You frown. Both of you seem to take turns at being utterly facetious, non fucking stop. "No means no, fucker."

"And me calling bullshit means that bullshit will eventually pick up." He sighs, shifts in his place a bit. Looking as if he was searching for the right words, he finally opens his mouth to talk after a few seconds of silence. "You were doing really great. Why did you stop?"

You squint and press your lips together a thin line, but then relax your face and jaw.

"Told you. Not feeling it." You shift off the bed. Only when they touch the floor you realize that there are gross pins and needles attacking your limb. You don't flinch.

He stares at you like he's picking you apart piece by piece. Then he sighs, flops down, curls in on himself while reaching for his earbuds.

"Close the door on your way out." He says, but you beat him to the last word by shutting the door.

You loudly groan once you're out, proceeding to jerk yourself off in the hall, back pressed to a wall and finishing on a blue puppet which you wipe with your foot. Your socks don't go in the dirty laundry. They belong in the trash.

So what else is left for you? You sit at your computer again, looking at the blank already asleep screen. Still in the same ugly pair of boxers and the shirt you didn't wash in days. Fucking moron. No one made you bail out but yourself. Unforgivable, you oughta be euthanized by the same puppet you further desecrated with your jizz. You hope he burns it.

Dealing with each other's shit is a routine by now. Being apart is unimaginable, but being together just fucking pushes you down further. You can't win no matter what you do, but that's okay. You can accept defeat a few times, as long as the topic is Dirk related.

Speaking of Dirk, he's soon to join you in the room. Fully clothed, thank fuck. Not looking at you or wondering why the fuck you're staring at nothing, though. You're surprised he isn't all up in your grill about the dishsoap you forgot, and which just randomly flashed in your head thus avoiding a plothole that could've easily occurred.

He proceeds to work on project SQUAREWAVE like nothing happened. And you, like the tough piece of shit you are, swallow up your issues and awake your resting machine.

Your sudden sneeze startles the both of you.

Yup. That's a fucking omen. A cold didn't fail to jump you.

You'll worry about it later. No use in lingering around it when the damage has already been done.


End file.
